


You Will Be Known Among Strangers

by nocturneblack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Essos, F/M, Headcanon, Inspired by Poetry, Married Couple, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, arya and gendry run away together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9326435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneblack/pseuds/nocturneblack
Summary: In Pentos everyone knows that the girl called Arya is the blacksmith's wife. The smell of metal and smoke cling to her, an imprint splayed across her body by his hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to "The World Belongs to You at Nightfall." It's not totally necessary to read that one first, but it does provide a bit of background info.  
> The title and inspiration for this work come from Michael Ondaatje's poem "The Cinnamon Peeler." I was also inspired by a Gendrya fic that follows Ondaatje's poem more closely than my story. That fic is called "The Blacksmith's Bride" and is by the author achelikeflowers.

In Pentos everyone knows that the girl called Arya is the blacksmith’s wife.

The first hint is usually the finely crafted sword that rests against her hip. It is bigger than a short-sword, but not nearly as large as a long-sword— a bastard blade, forged by the bastard who loves her. She keeps it hidden in a sheath of simple leather, but the intricately carved handle and hilt depicting a motif of running wolves betray its value. Gendry had promised her a new sword, one made of Valyrian steel, but she is endeared to the bastard sword, and wouldn’t mind it if he never got around to making her another.

When she goes to the market the sellers in their stalls can smell her; even through the scents of a hundred spices comes the smell of smoke and fire and metal, clinging to her hair and clothes and skin. The scent is industrial but not wholly unpleasant. It clouds the nostril of the merchants, and when she leaves their stalls, her arms laden with spices or fruit or fabric, they turn to one another and say, “The girl with the fine sword and the scent of smoke about her is the smith’s wife.”

She can always smell the scent of the forge in her hair. She supposed that most wives would keep away from their husbands’ place of work, but the stuffy heat of the fires have become a sort of comfort to her, in the same way she knows Gendry finds refuge there.

She slips in quietly at midday, when he is bent over a blade or piece of armor. She watches him silently as he moves about, heating metals in the fire and cooling them in water; pouring molten steel and iron into molds; shaping and filing blades; hitting and pounding with the hammer that is like an extension of his own hand.

It usually takes him a while to realize she’s there, but the look he gives her is always the same when he does. He puts down his tools and looks at her like he adores her more than life itself. His blue eyes look into her greys and his mouth lifts into a hint of a smile.

His skin is never completely free from soot and grime, and he leaves little marks all over her skin when he loves her. Black smudges appear on her skin like freckles, on her ankles and dotting up to her thighs, across her stomach and her breasts, leaving a trail where his fingers have touched her.

There are smudges of soot on her face sometimes, and when she passes through the cobbled streets of town the old women in front of their shops and houses look at one another with a gleam in their eye, undoubtedly recalling their own youthful love affairs, and say, “ah, there goes the blacksmith’s wife.”

On some nights they go to taverns together, drinking wine or mead or ale as they sit at a little table by themselves. The place they frequent most is dimly lit, a candle on each table, and clouds of smoke hang in the air, the scent of tobacco mixing with the scent of alcohol.

When Arya gets in her cups she likes to sing, though the locals are unfamiliar with her song about a forest lass and featherbeds. Her voice is usually off-key but full of passion as she croons for her laughing husband.

If there is music being played they are likely to dance, him holding her close and whispering things in her ear that make her blush (which is no easy task). She loves to dance with him, loves how much taller and broader he is than her, and she lets him lead. She thinks he is surprisingly good at leading them around the floor for someone so large and heavy on his feet. She often remarks that the music in Westeros is better than what they play in Pentos, and he is inclined to agree.

When Gendry gets in his cups he likes to kiss her. In Pentos no one bats an eye at a thing like a man kissing a woman out in the open, and so he’ll lean forward and kiss her cheek or her lips or her neck, his lips slow and leisurely. Before long she is dragging him out of the tavern by the hand.

When they reach the modest house that he built for her she pushes him down on their bed and takes her clothes off while he watches, his eyes glued to her as linen (or on some nights silk) slips down her shoulders. His eyes glaze over and his face lights up with a happy, drunk smile, and she has to stifle a laugh against the back of her hand.

She crawls over him, naked, and takes off his clothes next. When she sinks down onto him he groans as his hands come up to grip her hips, his blackened finger tips digging into the soft skin of her curves.

She likes when they make love when he is a bit drunk, when his tongue becomes looser and he unabashedly tells her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her, and how good she makes him feel. She tells him when to come, and he sits up so that he can kiss her as he thrusts up into her once more, pushing both of them to their peak. When they finish he always wants to lie with his head between her breasts or against her stomach, his strong arms wrapping around her. He breathes in her scent, always satisfied when he can smell himself on her, a combination of the smell of the forge and the smell of her skin.

While walking along the sand covered coast one evening they find a small cove, the water calm and secluded by trees. She suggests that they swim, her voice light and care-free. They strip down to their smallclothes and wade into water that is nearly as warm as the balmy air that leaves a light coating of perspiration clinging to their tanned skin. Arya dives under and swims around him while Gendry remains upright and standing, a less confident swimmer than she.

She stands up to face him and scoops water up with her hands to wash his arms and torso. The sooty marks that cover his arms are washed away, the water coursing down his body in rivulets as her hands scrub against his skin.

Her toes dig into the plush sand as she stands on tip-toe to kiss him. His taste is familiar and comforting, yet still invokes a fiery passion in her belly and between her thighs. She drags her lips to his neck, his skin wet and slick.

She stops and pulls away, her eyes narrowing as she looks up at him.

“You don’t smell like you,” she says to him.

“What do I smell like?” he asks around a laugh.

“You just smell like nothing,” she answers. “Which means _I_ smell like nothing right now.”

She gets a devious glint in her eye as a smirk tugs at her lips.

“Is this how you come to the other women, then?” she says as she turns away from him.

“What?”

“Your lovers,” she says as she whips around to face him, and he can see now that it is a jape. He laughs with her.

“Because if I ever came across a woman who smells as strongly of fire and metal as I do, I’d be very suspicious.”

“There is no other woman for me but you,” he says, knowing she is jesting but looking down at her with sincerity behind his eyes.

“Took you a while to realize that, though, didn’t it?” she asks playfully, thinking of how they were on a ship leaving Westeros by the time he first kissed her.

He smiles down at her, and in lieu of an answer he grabs her and kisses her. He pulls her down into the water, laughing and kicking, her limbs tangling with his as they splash about.

She is glad when he is dirtied by his work in the forge again, when sweat and soot coat his skin.

She likes to be reminded by the black fingerprints and charcoal smudges on her clothing, and delights in the knowledge that she is known among strangers as the blacksmith’s wife.


End file.
